


Breathless

by ivorydice



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, FFXV Kink Meme, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Game(s), Sappy, Self-Worth Issues, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-08 00:45:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11070513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivorydice/pseuds/ivorydice
Summary: This magic wouldn’t last. This would probably only be a brief moment, a small memory in which he would be able to recall with certainty that his dad had been proud of him, because once the magic was over, once they got back to real life, his dad would realize just how bad a son and heir he really was.





	Breathless

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt here: https://ffxv-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/3451.html?thread=3477627
> 
> _Noctis has been trying to do whatever he can to please his father and make him proud, not knowing that his father already adores him more than life itself. This stress and anxiety and feelings of unworthiness eventually take their toll._
> 
> _++ Could either have Noctis collapse with a fever at some event with his father, or get poisoned in his father's stead._
> 
> _++ If the author goes with the poisoned one it would be nice to see Noct thinking he did something useless, only for Regis to be horrified and do everything to let Noct know he's already the most precious thing to him._
> 
> _I need more father/son stuff and Sick Noct._
> 
> Lol what even is this fic. I don't know, man, it's not exactly what I wanted, but it's what came out anyway, and so I'm sticking with it (ʘ‿ʘ✿) I've already posted this at the kinkmeme, but I'm posting it here too because whhhyyyyyy not. Although if the OP doesn't want it here, feel free to let me know and I'll take it down!
> 
> God, I _hate_ that I couldn't think of anything better for the title lol.
> 
> Feel free to point out any mistakes/inconsistencies/grammar issues that I've missed!

  
  
His dad’s birthday was in two days, and Noctis still had so much to do.  
  
He had reports to go through, helpfully supplied by Ignis and slowly stacking up on a table back home, and the pile would only keep on getting bigger the more he fell behind. Training with Gladio was going to be a whole load of fun, seeing as it was both tonight and tomorrow night, with no gap in between since everyone would be far too busy on Saturday. Not to mention that both times included a double session consisting of both weaponry and magic, the latter being something he _really_ wasn’t looking forward to. And then he still had homework assignments he needed to get finished, and he was pretty sure some of it was overdue by now.  
  
And, even with all of that, he still had to help out at the Citadel, arranging a few final details for his father’s birthday party.  
  
All right, so he didn’t _have_ to arrange the party, he could very easily have passed it on - and still could - to someone else. Someone more capable than he was, someone who could do a better job, someone who knew what they were doing. And they would accept it without question, he knew they would. They would smile and nod and carry on for him, possibly thank him for his services despite that he was obviously so _terrible_ at this.  
  
Not that they would ever admit to that, though. Can’t say such things about the _prince_ , after all.  
  
Ignis had thought it had been a good responsibility to take on, said it could be an opportunity to further learn how the Citadel ran as a household, and he could learn a few lessons in... _gods_ knew what. His father had agreed, but he had made a point in saying that he wasn’t under any obligations.  
  
But Noctis knew his dad. He had seen the look in his eyes, the one that said he would find some sort of pleasure in Noctis arranging his party. He had seemed... _proud_ at the idea. And if there was one thing Noctis would always, _always_ want, it was to make his dad proud of him. More than that, Noctis just wanted to make him _happy_.  
  
So he had accepted the job, had spent the past couple of weeks arranging everything while trying to continue with his own obligations. Overseeing the decorations, the catering, the invitations, the music, making sure everyone was doing what they were supposed to be doing. Then stumbling home, going through reports and trying to finish his homework before catching a couple of hours of sleep, only to get up in the morning and do it all over again.  
  
_Gods_ , but he shouldn’t complain. He had _accepted_ this job after all. And he could always give it up now, he could pass the rest on. He had done most of it after all, and there were only two days left. So would it really look so bad if he gave up on the final two days of work?  
  
Oh gods, it would look really bad, wouldn’t it?  
  
He just wanted his head to stop hurting. He wanted his muscles to stop aching. He wanted to be able to sleep and eat properly, uncomfortably aware of how very little he had been eating recently. His appetite had decreased so much he didn’t even want to think about food, and whenever he did manage to get something down, it felt heavy in his stomach, like he would throw it back up at any moment. He was left binning leftovers to avoid Ignis noticing and questioning why he was so reluctant to eat, and he was even bundling up in more clothes to hide his recent weight loss.  
  
He couldn’t have Ignis know. If Ignis thought something was wrong, then he would either start getting on his case or report back to his father. Neither scenario sounded too appealing.  
  
It was just his cold or flu or whatever he had the other week. It was still clinging onto him, still trying to hang around for as long as possible. He just had to wait it out, and then everything would go back to normal. He just had to get through this.  
  
He could do this.  
  
  
~ &~  
  
  
Stumbling home from training was a rather delightful experience, even more so when he realized Ignis was already at his apartment and preparing dinner. Noctis leaned back against the front door, closed his eyes and sighed.  
  
Warping wasn’t getting any easier. Everyone said it would, said stupid things like ‘ _practice makes perfect’_ and ‘ _the more you do it, the easier it’ll get’_ and other nonsense that was probably supposed to help make him feel better and spur him on, but only resulted in doing the exact opposite.  
  
He couldn’t understand it. His dad had practically managed to perfect warping and using the armoury by the time he was seventeen, possibly even younger, and here Noctis was, sixteen and a half, barely able to even _start_ warping let alone access any of the weapons.  
  
It didn’t seem to matter how hard he tried, it didn’t matter that he practically threw himself into it, letting his body twist and fall, expecting to dissolve and reappear again, as easy as that. Instead, he constantly ended up on the ground, pain slamming through him, his magic burning in his veins as if it wanted to _reject_ him.  
  
And wasn’t that a funny thing? He was of the Lucian line, he was the heir to the throne, the magic of the Crystal was his _birthright_ and _it didn’t want him_.  
  
Perhaps the Crystal was trying to scream out loud what everyone else wouldn’t.  
  
“Noct?” Ignis’s voice called out. “Did I hear you come in?”  
  
Noctis let out another sigh and hit his head against the door behind him. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m here.”  
  
“How was training?”  
  
Not fun, a living nightmare, endlessly frustrating, painful. Noctis had a million and one answers to that question as he stepped into the living room, but he settled with, “It was fine.”  
  
The piles of reports and homework on his table really did look awful. He hated seeing it, felt a headache brewing whenever he so much as looked at it, and yet he knew the only solution to that particular problem was to sit down and finish them all. If he sat down now, he could probably get most of the homework done by sometime tonight. Maybe even all of it if he worked hard enough. Then he could hand it all in tomorrow morning and it wouldn’t be cluttering up his table like this.  
  
But he was just so _tired_.  
  
He wished he could just blow it all off like some other kids in his school seemed to do. He entertained the idea for a moment, thought about pushing it all aside, forgetting about it completely. But no, that wouldn’t do. He was the _prince_ and he had to do his best, he had to set a good example for everyone. He had to complete every assignment, had to finish every quiz, even the ones that were completely optional.  
  
It’s what his dad would want.  
  
Ignis stayed for dinner, and normally Noctis would appreciate the company, but tonight he found himself dreading the idea of having any sort of conversation. That meant keeping his mask up, that meant he had to act as normal as possible when, really, he just wanted to crawl into bed and sleep.  
  
“I couldn’t help but notice you still have homework and reports leftover,” Ignis commented at one point.  
  
Noctis sighed, pushing his lasagne around with his fork. Honestly, it was amazing it had taken his chamberlain _this_ long to comment on it. “Yeah, I know.”  
  
“That’s rather unlike you.”  
  
“Busier than normal.”  
  
“Ah, yes, of course,” Ignis smiled at him. “How have you been finding it? Arranging your father’s birthday celebration, I mean.”  
  
Weird, confusing, stressful, _exhausting_. “It’s been fine.”  
  
“Well, staff at the Citadel have been saying good things about you. They have nothing but praises for what you’ve done.”  
  
But, of course, they _would_ say good things, wouldn’t they? Even to someone like Ignis, to Noctis’s own chamberlain, his future advisor, his _friend_. No one would dare slander the prince, call his work and his efforts shoddy and useless, not to Ignis.  
  
He wondered if they said the same things about him to his dad. He wondered if they were raising his expectations, setting him up for disappointment.  
  
Noctis loved Ignis’s lasagne, and would eat it more than willingly on any other night. Tonight, however, it went down like lead, felt cold in his stomach as he swallowed past a lump in his throat. Noctis sighed and pushed the plate aside. “I’ll heat that up later, if that’s okay.”  
  
Ignis frowned. “Are you all right?”  
  
“Fine, just tired from training.”  
  
Later, when Ignis left, Noctis stared at his homework pile. He had to go and get it finished, he had to turn it in. He had to keep up the image of the perfect student. But his head was pounding and his muscles ached. Surely if he crawled into bed now, if he got a good night’s rest, then maybe he could get up early in the morning and finish it all before school. That would be better, wouldn’t it? Instead of sitting up all night and getting a crappy rest afterwards?  
  
His body certainly agreed, because he soon found himself crawling under his covers, still in his clothes, and he was out before he could bring himself to second guess the choice and regret it.  
  
  
~ &~  
  
  
He overslept.  
  
He could only stare at the time display on his phone for a second, horror creeping in, cold and sickening. He had _overslept_ , Ignis would be by to pick him up at any moment, and he hadn’t done _any_ of his homework or his reports, he hadn’t showered, he hadn’t _done anything_ —  
  
And he was still so, so very tired, his body slow to cooperate as he flung the blankets off and pulled himself out of bed and into the shower.  
  
He wouldn’t be able to hand in his homework then. He could ask for an extension, _another one_ , and they would probably allow it because he was the prince, but it would still get back to Ignis, and then Ignis would tell his father, and they would all know how much of a failure he really was.  
  
Gods, couldn’t he do _anything_ right? Couldn’t he just be good at something, just one little thing, _anything_?  
  
No, it didn’t look like it. School, weapons and magic training, assisting the staff at the Citadel, learning how to be a future king. He was bad at _everything_. He had to struggle with everything, had to throw every little bit of himself into whatever he was doing, and still it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.  
  
His dad must be really proud of him.  
  
  
~ &~  
  
  
And when it rains, it pours, or whatever that stupid saying was.  
  
He could get an extension, but his teacher made a point of saying that someone - Ignis, it would most definitely be Ignis, _great_ \- would be contacted out of “concern” for his recent decline with his school work. Noctis was just hoping that it wouldn’t be today. It was Friday, after all, it was the weekend, so maybe the school staff would put it off until Monday.  
  
That way, his dad wouldn’t receive the bad news until _after_ his birthday.  
  
He returned to the Citadel after school, his body aching and tired, to find that the flowers he had arranged for, due to some sort of delay, wouldn’t arrive until _tomorrow_ , on the actual day of the party, and, great, would they have the time to set it all up then? Surely they would, he had to believe they would.  
  
And on the way to training with Gladio, one of the servants ran up to him, face full of panic, waving a piece of card in her hand. “Your Highness, I’m so, so sorry,” she was babbling, breathless and pale. “I thought I sent all of the invitations out, I _triple_ checked, but it must have slipped me, and he was just on the phone, he knows he’s invited but he says he hasn’t received his invitation card yet, and the guests _need_ them to get into the party—”  
  
“Hold on,” Noctis interrupted her, blinking past the fuzziness in his brain. “Start again. Slowly.”  
  
She told him how some remaining lord, one of the council members at that, still didn’t have his invitation for the party, even though it was _tomorrow_ , and they certainly didn’t have the time to mail it out, not at this hour. The woman was beside herself with panic, and just for a moment, Noctis didn’t feel quite so alone. He _knew_ that panic, he could sense it trying to creep up on him even now, and he knew how awful it felt.  
  
Noctis ran a hand over his face and through his hair, then gently took the card from her. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll take care of it,” he said.  
  
The woman hesitated, biting her lip. “Are you sure? I can still—”  
  
“It’s fine,” Noctis shook his head. “I’ll take care of this. Go and have a break, relax for a little while.”  
  
She looked so relieved, so _grateful_ , that it almost made him feel better. “Thank you, Your Highness,” she bowed, and quickly took off.  
  
Gladio would have to wait. He would be pissed, would probably assume Noctis was slacking off, but there was nothing Noctis could do about that.  
  
Of course, that meant going back out of the Citadel, getting past the main gate and running through the streets. He couldn’t ask for a ride from anyone, especially not Ignis, and he certainly couldn't ask anyone else to go out and deliver the invitation. Not if he didn’t want everyone to find out what a mess this whole thing was turning out to be.  
  
It was raining, heavily, as he stepped outside, pouring down on him and soaking through his clothes and his hair as he ran through the streets, and he thanked the gods that the lord lived in a nearby neighbourhood. He kept the invitation tucked away in his pocket, praying that it would stay dry in there.  
  
It did, but it was crinkled up instead. Noctis pushed down the bitter feeling and shoved the invitation into the mailbox. It was dry and it was readable and _that_ _would have to do_.  
  
By the time he made it back and stepped into the training room, it was nearly two hours after he was actually supposed to be there, and Noctis honestly had no idea where all that time had gone. Gladio was still there, going through a few drills, and when he looked at Noctis he seemed _kind of_ pissed, but he guessed the fact that he looked like a drowned rat must have curbed some of his shield's anger.  
  
“What happened to you?” Gladio said after a moment, watching as Noctis shed his jacket and picked up his training sword, not even bothering to take the time to go and change into something more comfortable.  
  
“Rain,” Noctis grunted, because, really, how else would he have gotten like this? And had his sword _always_ been this heavy?  
  
They went through their usual drills and routines, wooden swords clashing, the sound making his ears ring and the force making the muscles in his arms quiver. Noctis felt sluggish as he ducked and dodged out of the way of Gladio’s forceful swings, and, despite his efforts, he ended up taking a few blows anyway.  
  
Gladio threw his sword down and crossed his arms over his chest, eyebrows raised. “You are way off your game tonight,” he said.  
  
Noctis could only gasp and nod, stuck kneeling on the floor, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. His lungs were burning and his body _ached_ , and they weren’t even done yet.  
  
“Listen, I know you’ve been busy and everything with this party coming up,” Gladio sighed, coming over and crouching down in front of him, “but you can’t let it get into your head like this. When you come in here, nothing else matters, okay?”  
  
That really wasn’t the problem, but Noctis figured it was better than admitting to how pathetic and just plain _crappy_ he felt today. “Yeah, I know,” he rasped.  
  
Gladio smiled and nodded. “Come on, let’s get some of your magic training done, then we’ll call it a day.”  
  
He wanted to scream as he tried and tried again, attempting to twist his body and force it into a warp, feeling it take hold for just a split second before shattering, falling away from him. What was the _point_? In any of it? They had been trying this for _months_ now and he wasn’t getting any better at it. And he probably wouldn’t, if the looks he got from everyone, including his dad, were anything to go by.  
  
It should be easy. It should come as natural to him as breathing, and yet it just _wasn’t happening_.  
  
He left the training room feeling more exhausted and dejected than he had in a while, and getting a text message from his dad asking if he wanted to attend dinner with him didn’t do much to ease his concerns.  
  
Why was his dad asking him now, today? Oh gods, he didn’t know about the whole school thing already, did he? Was that why he wanted to see him?  
  
Noctis ran a hand over his eyes. Whatever the reason, it still meant he could spend some time with his father, and that was a rarity these days considering how busy they both were. He could talk to him before the party. He might have that disappointed face if he actually knew about his schoolwork, but it would be nice to see him tonight, just the two of them instead of a room full of guests.  
  
Having dinner with his dad, that would—yeah, that would be nice.  
  
  
~ &~  
  
  
“So, how has it been, overseeing the arrangements for the party?”  
  
Noctis pushed some of the peas around on his plate, thinking hard about his answer. It was time consuming, hard, difficult, more complicated than he had ever expected, draining. “Eye opening,” Noctis said eventually, because that was true too. He had learned a _lot_ during these past couple of weeks.  
  
Like how bad at everything he really was.  
  
His dad was chuckling, a nice, affectionate sound, and it drifted all the way down to Noctis’s bones, warming him a little beneath his rain and sweat soaked clothes. “I appreciate the effort you have been putting into this,” his dad said. “I really do. You didn’t have to do any of it, and yet you have been working very hard.”  
  
Noctis shrugged. “I wanted to.”  
  
His dad frowned and pointed at Noctis’s plate with his fork. “Are you feeling well? You've barely eaten a thing.”  
  
He suddenly thought about all the meals and leftovers Ignis had made him, each one going to waste and ending up in the trash recently. He couldn’t think about eating tonight, not with his stomach feeling like it was the size of one of those peas, and especially not with the way it was twisting and turning the closer they got to tomorrow. “I’m not that hungry,” Noctis answered. “Magic training makes my stomach feel weird.”  
  
He felt bad for the lie, especially when his dad nodded in understanding. “You will get the hang of it, Noct. You just need to give it time.”  
  
He could probably try for a thousand years, and Noctis still wouldn’t get the hang of it. Where did his dad find such faith in him? Surely it should have burnt out long ago considering it was just one disappointment after another with him. Noctis cleared his throat. “You haven’t been peeking in on the ballroom, have you?” he asked instead.  
  
“No,” his dad chuckled. “Should I do so?”  
  
Noctis shook his head. “No way, you’re not supposed to see it until tomorrow night. It’s supposed to be a surprise.”  
  
“And I look forward to it,” his dad said, smiling. “I’m sure it’s going to be a very nice surprise.”  
  
Noctis could only hope so.  
  
  
~ &~  
  
  
Oh gods, what if it wouldn’t be a nice surprise? What if it was a bad surprise, a _horrible_ surprise? What if his dad walked through those doors, took one look at everything Noctis had arranged, and _hated_ it? What if his heart sank with disappointment in his chest, thinking of all of the other possibilities he could have had, the _professional_ arrangements, the _professional_ choices in decorations? What if he thought about all of the things he had wanted and not what Noctis had given him instead?  
  
Of course, being his dad, he wouldn’t show it. He would smile and nod, maybe even pat him on the back, tell him he had done a good job, thank him for his “hard” work. But his eyes wouldn’t crinkle at the corners, they wouldn’t sparkle, his voice wouldn’t have that warm, soft tone, like the one he had used to tell Noctis bedtime stories when he was little.  
  
He could imagine it all happening so well, and he knew it would be so much worse than if his father simply flat out stated that he hated everything.  
  
  
~ &~  
  
  
He woke up coughing.  
  
They ripped out of his chest painfully, loud and suffocating, sending little sparks of agony up and down his body. And once they started they didn’t seem to stop, and Noctis gagged at the feeling in his throat. He managed, somehow, to stumble out of his bed and into the bathroom, practically collapsing over the sink as he coughed into it.  
  
He gagged again at the feeling of something leaving his throat, and when he looked down into the sink he saw that he had coughed up some rather yellow looking mucus. He fought back the nausea, shivering, rubbing a hand over his aching chest, and he turned the faucet on, washing the ugly stuff down the drain.  
  
So he had the flu again. Wasn’t that just great.  
  
  
~&~  
  
  
On the day of the party and his dad’s birthday, Noctis woke up feeling _so much worse_ than before. He rolled off his bed in his Citadel rooms and managed to spend enough time in the shower to clean up a little, hacking up more yellow stuff and watching it swirl away down the drain.  
  
An hour later, he was propping himself up in the doorway to the ballroom and taking in the _dear fruits_ of his labour.  
  
The flowers had arrived sometime early in the morning, and the staff had already arranged it all exactly as he had told them to. Providing no other catastrophes happened, everything else was ready. The catering was all taken care of, including the birthday cake he had chosen (a simple, black tiered cake with golden trimmings), the music had all been decided on (a live band that would play a mixture of classical and jazz music, his dad’s favourite genres), and all of the guests had been invited. Everything was done. It was ready.  
  
And yet all he could think about was how he could have done _so much better_.  
  
There were thick, black ribbons hanging from the ceiling in delicate arches, broken up only by the occasional hanging light. With the rest of the room’s lighting dimmed down, the hanging lights would give off a glow, warm and intimate.  
  
Perhaps he should have added in some silver, to break up the black. Or gold, even. But then that would have taken away from the lights and could have overcrowded the look. He had been going for a night sky kind of theme, it had seemed so perfect in his head and had been his best idea, and yet it looked _so bad_ now. He could have done so much better than this, his dad was going to hate it—  
  
“It’s beautiful, Noct,” a voice said from beside him, and Noctis jumped a little, sending Ignis a glare when he noticed the amused smile on his face. His chamberlain turned back to the room before them, nodding in approval. “Truly. You’ve done an excellent job.”  
  
Noctis _really_ didn’t think so, but whatever. Ignis was entitled to his own opinion.  
  
Ignis was staring at him. “Are you all right? You’re looking a little peaky.”  
  
“Yeah, didn’t sleep well, that’s all,” Noctis shrugged. Ignis raised a doubtful eyebrow. “And I might have the flu again. I don’t know. I’m fine.”  
  
His chamberlain touched his cheek with the backs of his fingers, raising them to Noctis’s forehead, frowning a little. Noctis batted the hand away with an annoyed huff. “You feel slightly warm. Are you certain you’re up for tonight?”  
  
“I’ll be _fine_ ,” Noctis answered.  
  
Ignis gave him a funny look. “If you’re sure.”  
  
He _would_ be fine. He would have to be. There was no way he was going through all of this, making everyone suffer through his demands, putting his dad through his inevitable disappointment, only to skip out on the whole thing entirely. He wouldn’t miss his dad’s party, not for anything.  
  
  
~ &~  
  
  
He was _so cold_.  
  
He had to be ready, he had to get dressed, but Noctis couldn’t yet find the will to tear himself away from the shower, desperate to find some form of heat. He couldn’t stop shaking, his body racked with chills, despite the fact that the water was steaming and his skin was turning pink under the spray.  
  
Gods, but he was going to be late if he didn’t get out now. He would be late and that wasn’t good, it wouldn’t be fair of him to do that to his dad.  
  
Somehow, he ended up crouched down in the shower, fighting off a sudden wave of vertigo, arms wrapped around his legs, head pressed into the freezing cold tiles.  
  
“Noct?” Ignis called from the other room. “Are you almost done? It’s nearly time.”  
  
He had to get ready. He had to get dried and dressed and get his hair ready, but he was just so cold and so tired.  
  
“Noct?”  
  
Noctis cleared his throat. “Go on without me,” he managed to call out, and it was a wonder he sounded so _normal_ when his throat felt like it had been scrubbed with sandpaper. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”  
  
There was a pause, and then, “All right.”  
  
And then he was alone. Alone to hack up more stuff, alone to rub at his hurting chest and to try and catch his breath back, but even _breathing_ felt so hard, and he wanted to laugh and cry at that. How pathetic was he, that he couldn’t even _breathe_ properly?  
  
School, training, the magic, the party, _breathing_. He really was bad at everything.  
  
  
~ &~  
  
  
Noctis watched his dad’s face as they stepped into the ballroom together, and he didn’t look away even as the rest of the guests broke out in applause to greet the guest of honour and the band started playing the beginnings of a jazz song.  
  
His dad was taking everything in, eyes roaming over every little detail, up over the decorations above them, and Noctis tried to convince himself that it was his sudden chest problems that had his breath hitching in his throat the way it did.  
  
His dad didn’t look disappointed, he didn’t look crestfallen, or regretful. He was staring up at the imitation of the night sky above them with a wondrous look on his face, the lights shimmering suspiciously in his eyes. “This is incredible,” he murmured after a moment. “You did all of this?”  
  
“Well,” Noctis scratched the back of his neck, ignoring his heart jackhammering in his chest. “I’d say the staff did more work than I did. I just told them what to do.”  
  
“Don’t sell yourself short, kid,” Gladio said as he and Ignis appeared beside him. “This is really impressive.”  
  
“It is far more than that,” his dad murmured, and then his hand was on Noctis’s shoulder, and he was staring down at him with such a warm expression that Noctis could barely breathe from it. “ _Noct_. This is beautiful. Thank you.”  
  
Noctis nodded, blinking back the sudden stinging in his eyes and swallowing past the lump in his throat. When he spoke, he could only manage a weak, “Happy birthday, dad.”  
  
  
~ &~  
  
  
Noctis was stuck on that expression, even after a few hours into the celebrations. And still his dad seemed happy, he seemed _so happy_ , laughing at something Clarus was saying to him, and there wasn’t even a single trace of the disappointment Noctis had been preparing himself for, not even as his eyes kept drifting up to the lights above them and to each decoration, to the cake, to the band.  
  
And everyone kept coming up to him to tell him what a _marvellous_ job he had done, even men and women he had never heard of before let alone seen, but their comments meant nothing compared to the look on his dad’s face.  
  
But still, he couldn’t rest. Because this magic wouldn’t last. This would probably only be a brief moment, a small memory in which he would be able to recall with certainty that his dad had been proud of him, because once the magic was over, once they got back to real life, his dad would realize just how bad a son and heir he really was.  
  
Which would probably be a lot sooner, rather than later, because Noctis felt _awful_ , and while he had absolutely detested the idea of skipping out on the party before, it was now a very tempting possibility. The chattering and the laughter and the music and the clinking of glasses. It grated on every nerve, scraped against the pain in his skull, amplified as if each sound was being played through megaphones with the speakers attached to his ears.  
  
He stepped out onto one of the balconies for a moment, rubbing at his chest, trying to catch his breath back. Things were a lot quieter out here, but his head was still so fuzzy and he was still so cold. He couldn’t stop shivering. He had to cough into his elbow, hoping the fabric of his suit jacket would muffle the sound, but he still found himself glancing over his shoulder to see if anyone had heard.  
  
He had to go back inside. He had to go and make an appearance, he had to be there for his dad. It was the least he could do.  
  
He tried to take in a few breaths, tried to breathe in the night air, but it didn’t really work well. It just hurt his chest and made him cough a little more.  
  
Hoping he looked completely normal, Noctis headed back inside.  
  
More people accosted him, shook his hand and gave him compliments, but didn’t they realize that it was the staff who had done most of the work? Didn’t they realize he really wasn’t good at anything? Were they saying nice things simply because his father was in the same room and because he had acted in a positive way? What would they have said if his dad hadn’t liked any of it?  
  
Gods, but he just wanted to curl up in bed and _sleep_. He was so tired.  
  
Maybe if he closed his eyes for a second, just for a second—  
  
And maybe if people would stop gasping and shouting “Oh, Your Highness!” and “Noct!” and maybe just leave him the hell _alone_ , just for a second—  
  
And maybe if the freezing cold hands would get _off_ of him, would stop touching his cheeks and his head, because _no_ , he was so _cold_ , he didn’t want to feel any colder—  
  
“He’s burning up.”  
  
“So I can feel. Noct? Can you hear me, son?”  
  
Noctis blinked up at his dad’s face. What was he doing over here? Hadn’t he just been talking to Clarus? What was he doing above him, hovering over him with the starry lights, frowning with concern when he should have been laughing and happy? It was his _birthday_ , he shouldn’t have to look so worried, he shouldn’t have to look anything but relaxed and carefree and like he was _enjoying himself_ , his dad deserved to _enjoy_ himself, damn it—  
  
Noctis tried to tell him so, tried to get his throat to work, tried to get his mouth and his body to cooperate, tried to lift himself off of the ground and out of his dad’s arms, but all he could manage to do was clutch a black shirt in his hand and croak out, “Dad.”  
  
“I’m here, don’t worry,” his dad said, and a hand ran through his hair, which was bad, because he was going to mess the gel up, he was going to make him look too messy for the party, they were still at the party—  
  
Oh gods, he was ruining everything. He was ruining his dad’s birthday. “Sorry,” he said, and he tried to pull away again, tried to crawl out of the arms cradling him and holding him up, except nothing would _work_ , his body was heavy and sore and wouldn’t obey him, and would he ever be good at anything? Would he ever stop messing up? Noctis hid his face, hoping no one could read his thoughts or see the tears building in his eyes. “M’ _sorry_.”  
  
“Hush now,” his dad was saying, still running that hand over his head and through his hair. “You’re all right. There is nothing to apologize for.”  
  
Noctis shook his head. Why didn’t his dad understand? He tried to explain it, tried to get his dad to see, but all that came out was, “S’your _birthday_.”  
  
“It’s all right, Noct.”  
  
But it wasn’t all right. He was such a bad son, he had worked so hard on this party, he had just wanted to make his dad happy and _proud_ , and here he was, showing how weak he was in front of _everyone_ , showing what a disgrace the King had for a son. It was all crashing down around them, like the ceiling, it was falling like the ceiling was—  
  
Noctis stared up at the lights. “The ceiling, Dad.”  
  
“Shh, what about the ceiling?”  
  
“It’s coming to get us.” And it was, it was descending on them, coming to squash them like bugs, coming to eat them, and Noctis tried to crawl away and cling to his dad at the same time. “It doesn’t like us, it’s coming to get us—” he broke off, his breath catching in his throat, and he was coughing, curling into his dad and wheezing into his shirt.  
  
“Gods,” his dad said above him, raising his eyes to look at someone else. “Where are those damn medics?”  
  
“They’re on their way, Regis. We just have to wait.”  
  
“We _cannot_ wait, have you _heard_ him?” a hand cupped Noctis’s cheek and then lifted to his forehead. “How did this happen?”  
  
“He told me he thought he might be getting the flu again,” a voice chimed in.  
  
“This is a lot more than the flu, Iggy, look at him,” another voice said. Someone gripped his arm, fingers pressing into his wrist. "His pulse is going far too fast."  
  
There were other hands touching his face again and Noctis moaned, trying to push them all away. “Stop,” he said. “It’s _cold_.” And then he was coughing again, clutching at his throat, trying to ignore the stabbing pain every time he gasped.  
  
“No, we are _not_ waiting any longer,” his dad said. “He needs help _now_.”  
  
“I’m— _fine_ —” Noctis choked out, trying to _breathe_ , only able to pull in a quick gasp before letting it out again and repeat, and repeat, and repeat—  
  
“You are _not_ fine, Noct,” his dad said. “Hold onto me, I’m getting you some help.”  
  
Noctis didn’t want to hold on. He _flailed_ , trying to get away from his dad, trying to roll out of his grasp, struggling weakly even as he was lifted up and being carried out. No, _no_ , he _had_ to stay for the party. He had to show his face, he had to keep up appearances, he had to—  
  
He was coughing _again_ , into his dad’s shoulder, and he clutched at him again, clenching his fingers in the material of his shirt as he sobbed. It was useless, he didn't have the energy anymore and his father had a strong and steady grip on him, he wasn't going to let Noctis go. So he slumped in the arms that were carrying him, giving up, closing his eyes as he pressed his face into his dad's chest, listening to the steady heartbeat under his ear.  
  
  
~&~  
  
  
The last time Regis had moved that fast, his boy had been little and bleeding out into the grass with a daemon towering over him. He was certain that night had aged him more than the Wall ever could, tripling his heart rate, having his blood run through his veins like ice. It wasn't something he could easily forget, he would  _never_ forget the events of that terrible night, and even now he had nightmares of it, he still saw his little boy's bloody body and his pained eyes. He still woke up gasping, _praying_ that his son was fine, that nothing had happened to him during the night, that he hadn't been taken away.  
  
Seeing Noctis go down, amidst shouts of concern and hands reaching out to try and stop his fall, it was almost like they had gone back in time to eight years ago, it was like reliving that night all over again, with his boy _hurting_ and _needing_ him.  
  
Regis wasn’t sure if he had ran or warped the way there, he wasn't sure if people were jumping away from him or if he had pushed them out of the way, but it didn’t matter, none of it mattered as he held his son in his arms.  
  
His son, who was far too pale and was burning up, his temperature so high Regis could feel it through his layers of clothes. His son, who was delirious and babbling in his arms, struggling against him for gods knew what reason, who was shivering despite his fever and coughing and struggling to _breathe_ —and had he always been this thin, this light? Should he really feel so small as Regis clung to him?  
  
If only he had realized sooner. If only he had seen the signs, because there _must_ have been signs that Noctis was feeling unwell, and it was his duty as his father to recognize those signs and take _care_ of him, not have him running himself ragged.  
  
He had failed on such a catastrophic level, and now Noctis was paying the price for it.  
  
It was all a blur, making his way through the corridors, his heart clenching every time his boy struggled to breathe in and every time a coughing fit took hold, leaving him gasping each time. Ignis and Gladio had both offered to carry the prince for him, as did the medics who eventually caught up with them, but Regis didn’t want to let him go, not for anything. He held onto him tightly, until they got him to the hospital wing and Noctis was taken from him, being bundled away, doctors and nurses surrounding him and spouting off medical jargon that Regis had never been able to understand.  
  
All he wanted was for Noctis to be okay. He just had to hear those words - _“he’ll be fine”_ \- and that would be good enough for him.  
  
Except he didn’t seem fine. He was pale against the bed sheets, and he looked so small and fragile, even more so when they put an oxygen mask over his face.  
  
_He’ll be fine._  
  
He _had_ to be.  
  
  
~ &~  
  
  
Pneumonia. Noctis had pneumonia.  
  
The doctor continued to talk to him, his voice in the background saying something about high fevers and fluid in the lungs and possible dehydration, but Regis couldn’t really focus on any of it. He could only stare at his boy, so young and small, surrounded by machines, the clear mask on his face fogging up whenever he breathed.  
  
But at least he _was_ breathing.  
  
It might have been rude of him to leave his own party without sparing even the slightest glance for anyone, it might have been rude to stay here in the hospital wing after all of the work everyone had gone to - after everything Noctis himself had done - but manners be damned, he wasn’t going to leave his boy.  
  
Clarus had promised to sort everything out for him, he would reassure their guests and make sure everything would go over smoothly. And Regis couldn’t bring himself to regret his poor manners anyway, not when Noctis was still struggling to breathe and letting out those rattling coughs behind the mask.  
  
So he sat by the bed, taking one slim hand into both of his own, holding it close to his chest. It wasn’t right, how _warm_ his son was. If his temperature became any higher, he would be close to bursting into flames.  
  
Just how had this happened? Why hadn’t he seen the signs? Noctis had seemed tired and somewhat pale yesterday - and _evasive_ , now that he thought about it - but once he had brushed it off as side effects of his magic training, it had been all too easy to believe him. And, _gods above_ , Regis _had_ believed him, he had accepted the excuse blindly and had brushed it away, hadn’t let it linger in his thoughts like he should have done.  
  
He hated himself for it.  
  
  
~ &~  
  
  
Noctis woke again an hour or so later, and his temperature was still frighteningly high. His arm jerked upwards, sluggish and clumsy, and he muttered something as he batted at the oxygen mask still over his mouth. He only succeeded in moving it a little, moaning as the edges of the mask bumped into his nose, and his eyes were wide and confused when Regis leaned forwards.  
  
“Leave it be,” he said gently, keeping his voice low and soothing as he moved his son’s struggling hands to rest back on his stomach. “No, Noct, you need the oxygen. Leave it on.”  
  
Noctis was nothing if not stubborn, and he had a hand up again and was pulling the mask off before Regis could stop him. “Party,” he rasped. “You should be—party.”  
  
Regis leaned closer and ran a hand through damp, black locks. “I have no intentions of being anywhere but here. Especially not a party.”  
  
It didn’t seem to be what Noctis wanted to hear, because he moaned again, his eyes a little more distressed now, shaking his head. He started coughing, those breathless, painful sounding coughs that left him gasping, but he kept the mask out of reach when Regis moved to take it from him. “Noct,” he chastised. “Put the mask back on.”  
  
Noctis glared at him, but it was a weak glare, overshadowed by pain and fever. “You need to—party.”  
  
Regis attempted a smile. “I do not _need_ to party, Noct, I’m not as young as I used to be. Certainly not today.”  
  
Noctis was shaking his head again, completely oblivious to any humour Regis was trying to inject into the conversation, and he was alarmed to see tears suddenly welling up in his son’s eyes. “Messed up,” Noctis murmured. “I messed up.”  
  
“No,” Regis said, and he ran his fingers through his son’s hair again, using his other hand to tilt Noctis’s head so that he could look at him. “You have done nothing wrong. You cannot help being sick.”  
  
“Shouldn’t be sick. S’your birthday.” And, damn it, those tears wouldn’t leave, spilling over his eyelashes and tumbling down his cheeks. Regis’s heart sank at the sight of them, and he wiped them away with his thumbs, listening as his son rasped, “Wanted to show you. Wanted it to be good.”  
  
Regis ran his knuckles over a warm cheek. “Noct, you did a marvellous job with the party. I truly could not have been any happier with what you did for me.”  
  
Noctis hid his face away and sobbed, which was all the more heartbreaking when it triggered another fit of coughs. “No, messed it up,” he said, staring up at the ceiling with fever bright eyes. “Always mess it up. M’not good enough. Never good enough.” He turned to Regis suddenly, dropping the oxygen mask and reaching out, trying to clutch at his shirt. “M’ _sorry_. Just wanna be good enough for you, sorry m’not good enough, sorry, sorry—”  
  
“Hush, hush now,” Regis pulled him closer, wincing at the heat coming from, at the pounding heartbeat he could feel in his chest as he held Noctis to him. He ran his hands up and down his son’s back, hoping to soothe him.  
  
“Can’t do anything right,” Noctis was saying into his throat. “Wanna make you proud of me and I _can’t_. Can’t be proud of someone like me, I’m not _worth_ it, I’m sorry—” he broke off with a sob, choking back more coughs, and his fingers tightened where they gripped his shirt.  
  
Regis used their proximity to slip the mask back on, fitting it back over Noctis’s mouth, and he tried shushing him while his boy sobbed into his neck. He whispered nonsensical things to him as he rocked him back and forth, like he had done when Noctis was a child and distressed after having a particularly bad nightmare.  
  
He wanted to believe it was just the fever talking, making him babble about illogical things, but Regis had the creeping feeling that it was  _more_ than that. That these were genuine fears and feelings that Noctis had, out in the open now that his fever had gotten rid of any sort of filter he might have normally had, lowered any walls he would use to protect himself and keep his thoughts hidden away when he was fit and well.  
  
Noctis thought he wasn’t good enough? He thought he wasn’t good enough for _him_? How could he _possibly_ think that? How could he possibly think that Regis would consider him anything but perfect, how could he not know that he was so, _so_ proud of his son just the way he was, and that he didn’t need Noctis to do anything to prove himself?  
  
And yet here they were. Noctis, clinging to him with skin hotter than fire and lungs struggling to pull in air. He had most likely ran himself ragged after all, making himself sick with worry and with some sort of desperate obsession to obtain his father's approval, something which he  _already_ had. And Regis could only cling back, his own heart pounding, his chest clenching with regret and the fear that it was _he_ who had made a mess of things.  
  
Noctis’s voice was muffled due to the mask that covered his mouth, but Regis could still make out the apologies, his son desperate to be forgiven over some false notion that he was _unworthy_.  
  
“Noct,” Regis murmured, and damn it all if there weren’t tears in his eyes, if it wasn’t a struggle to speak past the lump in his throat. “Hush, it’s all right.”  
  
“Sorry, sorry—”  
  
“Oh, _Noct_ ,” he pressed a kiss to his son’s too hot forehead. “My dear boy, you will _always_ be good enough for me. Always. I’m sorry I ever let you think you weren’t.”  
  
  
~ &~  
  
  
His temperature kept fluctuating, although even at its lowest it was still worryingly high. Noctis was in and out of consciousness with it, sometimes waking up to try and kick his blanket off - only to pull it back on again when he complained about being cold - and other times to simply babble at Regis about the strangest of things, like the invisible chocobo that was apparently hiding in the corner of the room and was preparing to pluck out their hair at any moment.  
  
Honestly, it would be rather endearing if it wasn’t for the fact that Noctis was just so ill.  
  
“Your Majesty.”  
  
Regis looked up. “Ah, Ignis, come in.”  
  
Ignis closed the door behind him, ever mindful of his manners, although he seemed a lot less confident as he approached the bed, his eyes staring down at the sleeping prince with something akin to remorse. “How is he?”  
  
Regis shook his head and ran a hand over his eyes. “Delirious when he's awake,” he replied after a moment. “His temperature is still up and down. I think the antibiotics are beginning to work, however. He appears to be sleeping a little better now.”  
  
Ignis nodded. “Good, at least he has some relief then,” he said. He glanced down at his feet, swallowing visibly. “I wanted to apologize, Your Majesty. I should have known he was this unwell, I—”  
  
“Ignis,” Regis couldn’t help but smile at him. “You know as well as I do, if Noctis had no intentions of any of us finding out he was sick, then we wouldn’t have. I imagine the only reason we know now is because of his collapse.”  
  
That didn’t seem to settle the chamberlain’s worries. “Still, it shouldn’t have come to this.”  
  
Regis turned back to look at his son, curled up on his side facing him, hand near the edge of the bed as if to reach out for him. “No,” Regis answered. “It shouldn’t have. Have you noticed he appears to have lost weight?”  
  
Ignis’s mouth was a grim line when he looked back at the chamberlain. “I haven’t,” the young man said, shaking his head a little. “He wears so many layers, it’s a little hard to tell sometimes. I _did_ notice he hasn’t been eating much, as of late.”  
  
Regis thought back to his dinner with Noctis just the other evening, barely touching anything on his plate, pushing his food around as if he would rather stare at it than eat it. He had said it was down to his training, that his magic made his stomach feel out of sorts, but was that really what it was? Had it actually been an early sign of his pneumonia? Was it something else? Gods, had he been preoccupied with thoughts of making himself ‘good enough’?  
  
“I had a call from his school on Friday,” Ignis said suddenly, sitting down in the spare seat beside him. “They were rather concerned. They say his work hasn’t been up to his usual standard, he’s been behind on assignments and asking for extensions, and he’s been coming into classes looking exhausted and worn out.” He looked at Regis and must have mistaken his frown for something a little more angry, because he went on, “I don’t think it’s anything to worry about, they made a point in saying his work is still very much an excellent quality. They were more concerned about him being under any stress and if there was anything they could do to lighten the burden.”  
  
Gods. How bad a father was he, that Noctis’s _school_ had noticed something was wrong before he had? And after the tearful confession from last night, Regis could imagine all too well that Noctis would be distressed with any struggles he might have been having at school. He probably even viewed it as a weakness, a _disappointment_.  
  
“What have I done, Ignis?” Regis murmured, and he reached out to take that hand resting on the bed, his heart clenching when Noctis mumbled something in his sleep and curled further into himself and, as a result, further around their hands, as if wanting to protect the hold he had on his father. As if he wanted to keep it safe, so that it couldn’t be taken away from him.  
  
Ignis clearly didn’t understand the question, however, shaking his head and frowning in confusion. “Nothing, Your Majesty. You’ve done nothing.”  
  
Exactly. He had done nothing. He had let his son drift away from him. He had done nothing while the gap between them had widened into a chasm, so much that Noctis felt like he had to jump through hoops just to close it again, as if his own father’s love and approval was something special to be earned and hadn’t already been won the day he had held Noctis in his arms for the first time and had fallen in love with those blue eyes and tiny hands.  
  
He had done _nothing_.  
  
  
~ &~  
  
  
When Noctis woke up, he felt surprisingly better than he had in a while, which was kind of saying something considering he still felt like death warmed over. His head and his chest ached, and breathing still felt a little funny, but there wasn’t an overwhelming feeling of _heaviness_.  
  
There was a mask covering his mouth and an IV line going into his arm. He frowned at them, feeling the mask with both hands as he looked around, intending to pull it off before two other hands reached out and grasped his wrists.  
  
“Leave it on,” his dad said. “You still need some assistance with your breathing.”  
  
What? That was ridiculous, he wanted to say. He didn’t need help to _breathe_ , that came naturally, he could do it on his own thank you.  
  
Except it really was kind of an effort to pull in air.  
  
Noctis stared at his dad. He wasn’t _old_ , not really, despite that fuelling the Wall made him appear far more aged than he should have been, but something about him right now looked so weary and tired, the lines on his face a little more prominent than usual, shadows lining the skin under his eyes.  
  
And Noctis had a sinking feeling that it was all his fault.  
  
Noctis pulled the mask away and opened his mouth to speak, but his throat felt so _sore_ , so rough, and he groaned at it. Then there was a hand at the back of his head, lifting him up slightly, another hand holding a drink in front of him.  
  
“Slow sips,” his dad murmured, and the fingers on the back of Noctis’s head stroked through his hair.  
  
The water felt like ice going down his throat, but it also felt pretty good considering he was so _hot_. He moaned at the loss when it was taken away.  
  
His dad was smiling, setting the plastic cup down on the table beside the bed, and he helped Noctis lay back down. “You can have some more in a while,” he said. “Too much and you might make yourself sick.”  
  
“Where—” Noctis swallowed, surprised at how terrible and rough his voice sounded. “Where are we? Hospital?”  
  
“Yes,” his dad nodded. “The hospital wing.”  
  
Noctis stared.  
  
“What is the last thing you remember?”  
  
The last thing? He wasn’t sure, everything was such a blur. He remembered feeling awful, struggling to shower and dress and just wanting to sleep. And then— “Party. We were at your birthday party.” And his dad wasn’t wearing the dress clothes he had had on then. He couldn’t remember much, but he knew his dad was wearing something different now.  
  
“Yes. You collapsed at the party,” his dad said, letting out a heavy sigh and running a hand over his eyes. He looked _so tired_ , and that wasn’t right. “It turns out you have pneumonia. You’ve been in and out of consciousness for a few days now, but your fever is finally coming down.”  
  
A few days. He had been here for _a few days_ , and it wasn’t his dad’s birthday anymore. Because he was so stupid, so careless, he had managed to singlehandedly undo everyone’s hard work and had _ruined_ his dad’s birthday.  
  
Noctis turned his head to stare up at the ceiling and clenched his jaw, fighting back against the suspicious prickling feeling in his eyes.  
  
He couldn’t do anything right, and his dad was probably _so_ disappointed in him now.  
  
“Noct.”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“Look at me.”  
  
He didn’t want to, but he did it anyway, it was the _least_ he could do after everything that had happened. His dad had a funny look on his face, though, a sad smile on his lips that seemed more like a grimace, brows furrowing, eyes shining. “You said some rather concerning things while you were...delirious, shall I say.”  
  
Noctis attempted to smile, even though he could feel his heart picking up in pace. “Delirious being the key word,” he said. “Take it with a grain of salt.”  
  
“Noct.”  
  
“Hey, why so serious? I didn’t confess to taking drugs or anything, did I?”  
  
His dad’s eyebrows shot up. “Have you been?”  
  
Noctis snorted in faint amusement, which was a bad thing to do because he was coughing, and he raised the mask to his mouth for a moment. “No way,” he managed to get out, when he felt like he could breathe better. “Ignis and Gladio would beat my ass if I ever even thought about taking drugs.”  
  
At least _that_ brought a smile to his dad’s lips, a real smile, small and amused. “Yes, I suppose they would.”  
  
“Thanks for the support.”  
  
“Noctis.”  
  
He sounded so _serious_ suddenly, so concerned, Noctis couldn’t tear his eyes away. “It’s like I said," his dad continued. "You were saying some very worrying things. You kept talking about how you ‘messed things up’ and how you don’t feel as if you’re good enough. You said you wanted to be good enough for me.”  
  
Noctis _had_ to look away then, a cold feeling settling in his gut despite how hot his skin burned. He picked at the blanket covering him. He wanted to bury himself under it and hide away, but it’d probably just make him feel even warmer. “Can we not do this now, please?”  
  
“I just need to know, Noct,” his dad pleaded, voice hoarse and his face scrunched up. “I need to know you haven’t been pushing yourself so hard you ended up ill, all because you feel as if you have something to _prove_ to me.”  
  
“I just—” His eyes were watering suddenly, and he reached up to rub the tears away furiously, angry that he would buckle so badly under even the slightest pressure. “I _suck_ at everything, okay? I’m just—it’s like I try my best and I’m just still so bad at everything.”  
  
“That is most certainly _not true_ , Noct.”  
  
“It is. I can’t even warp, Dad. You were warping and using your weapons by the time you were my age and I just—I _can’t_.”  
  
His dad looked baffled, shaking his head slightly. “Noct, you are forgetting that we are two different people. We all learn in our own ways and in our own time. You simply cannot rush these things, and we all know how hard you have been trying with your magic.”  
  
He still didn’t understand, why didn’t his dad understand just how much he had _failed_? Maybe he just didn’t want to see it or believe it. Noctis let out a laugh and wiped at his eyes again, beyond frustrated. “I couldn’t even balance everything out, no matter how hard I tried to. I mean, with school and training and everything. Have you heard from the school yet? They’ll probably be in touch because of how badly I’ve been doing.”  
  
“Yes, we heard from them, and Ignis has been in touch with them to let them know you won’t be attending school until you are well enough to do so,” his dad paused, frowning. “I think you may have misunderstood their concern, Noct. They were more worried about any undue stress you might be under, rather than any decline in your schoolwork. Which, I might add, is not as bad as you’re making it out to be. It’s nothing that cannot be remedied, given a little time.”  
  
Noctis shook his head. “Shouldn’t have gotten to that point in the first place.”  
  
“Noct—”  
  
“No. How can you not hate me? I messed everything up. I messed up your party. I _ruined_ your birthday, I’m sorry, I just—” his voice failed him then and he covered his eyes, ignoring the sounds of his dad coming closer. “I just wanted to prove that I wasn’t such a failure. I wanted to be someone you could be _proud_ of, I just…”  
  
“Shh,” a hand buried in his hair then, brushing it away from his forehead. “Shh, Noct, it’s all right.”  
  
“It’s _not_ ,” he ripped his hands away from his face to look up at his dad’s grim expression. “It’s _not_ all right.”  
  
“No,” his dad said, and he sounded so serious, so sad. “It’s not all right that I have allowed you to walk around thinking that I am not already so proud of you, and I have been proud to call you my son since the day you came into this world.”  
  
Noctis frowned and stared up at him, not even fighting back when another hand came up to wipe at his cheeks. “You can’t mean that,” he managed to get out. “I’m not good enough.”  
  
His dad settled a levelled stare at him. “Not good enough for what? For me? Not good enough to be called my son?” there must have been something in his face confirming his feelings about that, because his dad _did_ look crestfallen now. “Noct,” he said, swallowing thickly. “You are _everything_ to me, and more than what I could have ever hoped for in a son. I thank the gods every day that I get to have you in my life. My only regret is that I have let you go for this long thinking otherwise.”  
  
It didn’t seem true, it _couldn’t_ have been true, and yet there were tears pooling in his dad’s eyes and he was still holding onto him, running his fingers through his hair and along his cheeks so tenderly, as if he was made of glass and would break at any moment.  
  
Noctis squeezed his eyes shut and let himself be lifted up, his head carefully tucked under his dad’s chin, and finally, _finally_ , something settled within his chest, a different sort of warmth spread through him. Lips touched his head gently and his dad whispered, “I love you. So, _so_ much. Please don’t ever forget that.”  
  
His arm was heavy as he lifted it, heavier than any weapon he had used in his training with Gladio, but he still managed to curl it around his dad’s shoulders and clutch at the back of his shirt.  
  
“I’m still sorry I ruined your birthday,” Noctis murmured after a little while.  
  
His dad made a clicking noise with his tongue, affectionate and chastising all in one. “Noct. You could have _died_ ,” he pulled away then, looking down at Noctis with a weak smile. “There will be other birthdays. There is, however, only one of you.”  
  
It felt stupid to think, considering how sick he still felt, but he did feel significantly lighter as his dad helped to lay him back down and returned to his seat, talking to him about meaningless things as Noctis used the mask to breathe easier.  
  
He felt like he had messed things up, but his dad didn’t think so. He felt like he had ruined his dad’s birthday, but his dad didn’t hate him for it, didn’t even seem to consider having any bad thoughts over it.  
  
It was nice.  
  
And he didn’t seem to be in any hurry to leave Noctis alone, shifting in a seat that couldn’t be any good for his back, stifling a yawn that seemed to make his jaw pop. Noctis smiled at him weakly. “You look tired. You should go, get some sleep.”  
  
His dad smiled back. “I think I would rather stay here. You are so warm, you are probably the most efficient heat source in the entire Citadel.”  
  
Noctis couldn’t help the small chuckle that came out of him, even if it triggered a coughing fit and had his dad stroking his chest in concern. “M’okay,” he gasped after a minute or two, suddenly grateful for the oxygen mask and the help it provided.  
  
“You are _not_ okay,” his dad said. “But you will be.”  
  
Noctis reached up and gripped his wrist. “Have you eaten? Slept? Have you even left this room to attend any of your duties?”  
  
“Of course I have eaten and slept,” his dad said, chuckling warmly. “Thank you for the concern, _father_. And how can I even consider leaving, knowing you are stuck in here and in this condition?” He shook his head and waved a dismissive hand, as if it was as simple as that. “You needn’t worry, it’s all been taken care of. You just need to focus on getting better. I need for you to get better.”  
  
Noctis smiled at him. “All right.”  
  
His dad returned the smile, leaning forward again to card his hand once more through Noctis’s hair, eyes warm and loving. “That’s my boy.”  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I've never had pneumonia, and my medical knowledge is _so_ bad, so I gotta apologize for that ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Feel free to poke me on tumblr: ivorydice.tumblr.com


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